


A Goddess and a Gargoyle

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Bunkers, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Oral Sex, Seizures, post 3x4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 07:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16614368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: Post 3x4, Betty finds Jughead playing a dangerous game in the bunker with the Serpents. Reality ebbs a little for both of them as they try to pull each other to the same place and Betty finds out the reason he doesn't think she can't "ascend"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a punishment/sexy fic in my head but it ended up being a lot more character driven and almost no sex so yeah. That happens sometimes.
> 
> If you want a song that gives the mood of this fic try Soap&Skin's "Me And The Devil"
> 
> Mild sex/violence spoiler/warning // There's a potentially upsetting moment when Jug goes down on Betty and he doesn't stop right away when she asks him to bc he's having some kind of focused episode but Betty knocks him out of it so yeah you've been warned

She wants to tell him about her mom…about everything. They said they’d do that, now. They’re partners. Even after the whole seizure thing. Betty’s fingers tingle at the memory, but she shakes it away, trying to focus on uncovering if her mom’s story has any bit of truth to it. The walk to school is tense, _invasively_ lonely now that Archie’s not home and Jughead’s back at the south side trying to make sure nobody gets taken, sucked into Ghoulie or Gargoyle hell. She hates it. She loathes her mother, writing affirmations and selling secrets to people she doesn’t know, people who could hurt them. So the walk to school becomes a run, a race to see if she can get there before she shreds her heart, brain, and body into pieces.

The places she needs to check hover like bullet points in her brain, but there are too many people around for her to strike them through. Jughead’s talking in hushed whispers to some of the Serpents and she idly wonders if she should be there too, _Queen_ and all. This feels just like the pool party when she’d had to edge her way past them in her pastel pink swimsuit and declare that she’d be on the front lines. It’s…distracting, disarming. Thankfully Veronica needs some distracting from less than savory things as well, and she’s swept into comforting mode before she can resume worrying or detective work.

When she asks Jughead if he wants to check something with her at lunch he sort of frowns, wondering if she’s asking him to skip a meal. “Never mind,” she laughs lightly, kissing his now-pink lips. “I’m going to check some sources and I’ll meet you in the bunker tonight, okay?”

“Tonight,” he repeats almost mechanically, “I’ll do some sleuthing of my own,” he adds, nodding and returning her kiss.

So she finds the carvings her mother left in the window sill. Breaks in to the trophy case and gets the chalices. Even if her mother is a liar, at least some of what she said is real. The truth was like that. _Hiding in plain sight_. Polly and Jason’s car, the flash drive in the letterman jacket. Her father’s Nancy Drew codec, the stack of home movies. Betty starts to tremble, hating herself, quickly shoving the thoughts away and trying to focus on what it all _means_.

There’s a little insignia on the bottom of the chalice, little markings that remind her of a “V” and the masked antlered giant her and Jughead encountered in the woods. This thing didn’t really chase them. It wanted them to choose death for themselves. _Flip for your fate_ , it said. A devil. A deer. Both and neither at the same time.

 

At least it’s light out when she trots through the woods, her school bag still trapped at her side. She’s early, but he won’t mind. He’s probably staring at the murder board looking for patterns, which is why she’s surprised by the low lighting. Maybe he’s more in the mood for private time, for sex? “Juggie? Jug? You won’t believe the story my mom told me last night,” she pants, footsteps muted by her tennis shoes. They’ve become a more permanent part of her wardrobe lately, easier for her to run or sneak as needed. Nobody notices when she approaches, even though she’s announced herself.

The young Serpents sit around the table, candles aglow, Jughead sipping some kind of soda while Cheryl and Toni confer about their next move and Fangs and Sweet Pea eagerly collect their die. It’s the game. It’s the forbidden game, the one that leads to death. They don’t even look up when she steps down into the main bunker.

This feels like a fever-dream. Almost…almost like when she saw her mom and Polly holding the babies over the fire. It has that ethereal quality, a cold, harsh, orange glow. “Jug.” Fangs, closest to her, looks up an instant before _he_ does, face flashing with something like alarm before morphing into an intense determination. This can’t be real. “What are you doing?”

Her boyfriend stands up with an air of revelation, flashing a crinkling copy of the manual up by his face, his voice _off_ and fast and clipped. “Betty. It’s all making sense. All of this is becoming clear.” He’s not blinking. “The game. The Gargoyle King.” Dread rises more powerfully in her throat. She doesn’t say anything, glancing around to see if everyone else is hearing this. _Seeing_ this. How _wrong_ it is. He looks crazed at the board and snaps his attention back on her, brow twitching like he’s already unraveling the mystery. “I’m a level three. But it’s only a matter of time until I ascend…”

_You mean die_ , she wants to whisper.

His hand shakes with resolve as it points to his chest, voice falling into a wrathful whisper. “ _And I get to meet him_.”

The room starts swirling. She’s losing him again. It’s been _one_ day, _one_ game. His teeth grind, eyes wild, and she has to stop him, stop him from speaking, from playing this game, from dying and throwing it all away again in the games Riverdale makes them play. She can’t faint again, she can’t lose time.

“No.”

He doesn’t do anything, just looks wildly at the board and at what Toni and Cheryl were scribbling on their notes. Terror bites through her veins.

“Stop, Jug.”

Jerking his head, he glances at the die in Fangs’ hand. “We can’t stop, Betty. We’re right in the middle of it. We’re so close, and when we meet the Gargoyle King—“

“We met him, Jug. Remember? You and me, in the woods. For all we know it could be Ethel, or another murderer, or a Ghoulie, or even—”

“N—no,” he grins, teeth sharp, waving his hand. “We can’t stop this, Betty. We have to save the world, to stop the darkness. It’s all making sense. The King must be met.”

“You’re the King, Jug,” she snaps, suddenly _angry_. “The Serpent King. And I am your _Queen_ and I am telling you stop!”

Cheryl laughs, enjoying the chaos. But Sweet Pea and Fangs are frozen, fists still around their game pieces, waiting to be told what to do.

“I…Betty…” That _thing_ resembling a smile shivers on his face, even as he shakes his head. She’s never seen anything like this, not even when her sister talks about the Farm with that glassy-eyed blindness. It’s happening. Reality’s shifting, and she blinks into it.

Her mind and body slide into the anger she holds onto, something powerful enough she doesn’t black out this time. The voice that comes out is hers, but only a few people have heard it before, and even then, not like this. “As your Queen, I order you to stop.”

Everything goes quiet and still. Sweet Pea gazes at her in a sort of heady adoration, and even Cheryl and Toni look a little impressed. Breathing shallow, Jughead trembles in anticipation. He wants to grab the game, the manual, she knows he does. But he wants to grab her, too.

“We can…we can continue…this…later.”

_Later_. The Serpents shift, slowly packing up their things and nodding at Betty as they pass. Sweet Pea and Fangs hover back as the girls clink up the ladder in chunky heels hardly suited for anything other than a runway.

Now Betty’s the one not blinking, staring Jughead down as he slowly comes into himself, squinting at the abandoned game board on the table.

“I’m a knight,” Fangs offers.

“And I’m a cleric.”

Sweet Pea’s choice is somewhat surprising. But then she remembers how he, Toni, and Jughead had held Fangs after he was shot, helplessly failing at being a shield or a warrior as he bled out onto the war-torn streets.

_In unity there is strength_ , she thinks sourly, as Jughead puzzles over the pieces like he almost doesn’t remember putting them there, like he wants to shuffle them around until they make sense again.

Eventually the heavier footing of the boys ascending ( _ASCENDING, her brain screams_ ) the ladder fades, and it’s just her and Jughead in the low-lit bunker.

“I…Betty…we were playing the game, and it—it makes sense once you’ve played it. The lore. The order. He’s waiting for us. We just need the right _chance_.”

“You certainly took some tonight.” She flicks the gargoyle piece on its back with her index finger, like it’s that easy to take down a monster.

His hand reaches up for his beanie, tugging it nervously, but not quite off his head like he normally does when they’re alone here. “You can’t play, Betty. I didn’t think you—that you could play.”

“Why?” The word’s hard, baiting.

“Because,” his eyes flicker nervously up to her own. “You’re not…”

“I’m not _worthy_?” she repeats, bitterness seeping deeper than the past few weeks. After all they’ve been through. After all of _this._ He’d throw his life away for a dog, and now for a _game_. And he can’t even be brave enough to wait for her. “Is that what Ethel told you?”

“No, it’s not—” he flushes, scowling at the memory. “You’re…you’re not like us.”

“Not like what?”

His mouth twists into one of his pouts. “You don’t want to—need to ascend. You…you’re one of the people we have to protect.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, almost speaking normally again, his gaze holding a certain veneration. “That _I_ need to protect.”

It takes a measured exhale not to lash out the way she wants to, her words stinging like a whip. “Like you _protected_ me when you nearly got yourself killed? When you broke up with me at the Warm?” His eyes flash with shock and pain. She hasn’t brought it up, not in a while. But that seems to sink him into a bitter part of reality. “You can’t save things. Not when you risk and destroy them like this. You knew this game was an addiction.”

He opens his mouth, a quiet cry dying on his lips. Wetting his lips, he rambles, “I thought…I thought I was _making_ something, finding it—the patterns seem so clear. I could show you, Betty. I know you don’t understand, but I can show you. I can _see it_ now.”

Betty’s not buying it, and spreads her stance to assert her dominance. “Don’t you know you’re not in charge here? You’re not the master. Not of a game. Not of anything else.” Lost, he looks around the room, at the murder board, at the candles, at everything except for her. “And certainly not of me. Now strip down and get on your knees.”

 

Stunned, he wonders at her. He knows what it means, but he never—they never…

She blinks once. It’s a warning.

Quickly, Jughead tugs his beanie off and tosses it on the cot. Nerves make him wring his fingers through his hair, which feels greasy and gross and not presentable for any occasion. The hoodie falls easily off his arms. Before he can grab his shirt, she commands him with something new, something important. “Blow out the candles on the table.”

He does, cupping around them so as not to scatter the sheets of paper.

Anxiety unravels the assuredness he had a moment ago. The _patterns._ The _King_.

“Tell me, Jug…who is your queen?”

Jughead takes a deep, steadying breath, his eyes trailing to the floor, to her feet. “You are.”

“Say it.”

“ _You_ are my queen, Betty. You’ll always be my queen.”

“Will I?” she asks, voice tight. It curls something sad, ashamed in his gut. “Or is there someone else you serve in this make-believe world of yours?”

“No, Betty, it’s you. It’s always you!” he pleads. Even in a land of princesses, of make-believe, his character worships a goddess. _Elizabeth_. But he can’t tell her that. Can’t tell her she’s his god and that’s why she can’t ascend. He _worships_ her, even if everyone else gives him shit for it. She’s the goddess of justice, of truth. And she wants to punish him.

“So why the hell did you bring them here, Jug?” she shouts, slipping a bit back into herself. “Why did you drink the chalice and kiss Ethel? Why did you choose this crazy game of Russian roulette without me, the girl who’s supposed to be your _partner in life_?”

Flinching, he moves towards her, ready to beg. “Betty, I’m sorry, I…you told me to get the manual. To get into the game, even if later you…I’m just _using_ it to get deeper into the meaning. I’ve just…we’ve been trying so hard, and I thought…” His brain feels like it’s pulsing, frazzling. “I thought if I could figure it out, I could bring it to you. I could—we could put our minds together. And I’m doing it, I’m level three!”

But she lashes out at him. “It’s made up, Jug! Do you not get that? It’s a fantasy! There are no levels, no princesses or knights, there’s only alive or dead! And you’re _rolling the dice_ on it! On us!”

What?…he’d told her about it. About the absurdity of the demand of a kiss after he’d already risked _poisoning_. It was all about the manual, the quest, and the second he got it he was thinking about Betty, trying to decode the mystery together. And then Ethel tried to off herself and well…things got complicated. They snowballed into…this. But he still belongs with Betty. _To_ her.

“Who are you, Jug?”

It’s a demand, one that throws him off. Is he supposed to answer _hers_? His character? Jughead Jones, Forscythe Pendleton Jones the third? A shadow warrior? An idiot? A genius? A king?

Throat tight, he stares at her. “I don’t know.”

Ponytail bobbing lightly in a nod, she surveys him. “I need to remind you?”

_Please_ , he wants to beg. But she knows. She can feel him.

She slides her bag off her shoulder, dropping it gently at her feet before she sheds her jacket too.

“You’ve been hunting death, Jug. We all have. Ever since Jason Blossom washed up in Sweetwater River.” Long eyelashes chase the shadows on her face. Her hands slide up on either side of his jaw, tender and firm. “Do you want to die? Do you want to leave me?”

“No,” he whispers, choking on his need to touch her. But he doesn’t have permission yet. She still has this strange power, he can feel it lingering in the room like fog.

Her emerald eyes flicker in the candlelight, skin smooth like sun-kissed stone. “You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you? No more secrets. No more games.”

Insides softening, his hands reach up for her face. “I want to be good for you. But you know me, you know this…this town…it’s full of darkness. I have to get _into_ it to get rid of it. I can meet him, I can end this.”

“No.” She pulls back, just out of reach, gaze hardening in anger. “If we’re not… _us_ , anymore, then I don’t want to do this.”

Heart pounding, he stares at her. She can’t mean…be together. He loves her. They just went through this. They go through _everything,_ including the dark stuff. “Betty, this is—“

“What, Jug? Is this a game? Is risking our lives or solving a mystery the only thing keeping us together?”

“Of course not!” he yells, voice swallowed by the earth around them. He hates it, hates feeling confined like this.

He wishes she’d bury her gesturing hands in his hair, on his skin, because he can see it…those faint red crescents that are probably his fault, her chest panting with heavy breaths. “What am I supposed to think here? That you starting a campaign and risking your life is just _part of the status quo_? My _mom_ played this game, Jug. She played this game and people…people did drugs, they lost themselves, they lost _someone_. I could lose you, Jug!”

“That’s not going to happen,” he protests, throat tight. “I’m in control.”

“No you’re not! You’re not and you don’t see it.” He lowers his head, looking at the board where she tipped the gargoyle piece. She might be right. Amidst her fierce power, her force of nature, he realizes that the powers that be are leading him back to her. It’s all fate. Chance. And that’s _such_ a relief, knowing it’s just a toss of the dice. She should know, should understand. But her eyes are hard, dark when he’s faced with them, dragged by her fingers on his neck. “You’re doing it _right now_ , pushing me and everything else in this reality away,” she snaps, and it’s like she’s stolen all the oxygen from the room. Sensing she has his attention, she straightens. “Who am I? Who am I here?”

“Betty,” he answers desperately.

“Tell me. Tell me who I am to you.”

He takes a deep breath, longing for her hands on his cheeks again, her lips on his, the admiration in her eyes. But he doesn’t have any of that. He barely has air. “You’re my partner. My love. You’re strong. You are justice, persistence, a warrior—“

“Not the ideals, Jug. Not some _fantasy_. _Who am I?_ ” she snaps, fists curled at her sides.

A heartbeat thuds painfully in his chest.

“You’re Betty.” He doesn’t want to say anything else. He doesn’t want to say what she’s leading him towards, what she wants him to peel and pick at until it’s red and throbbing. Her hair glints like soft gold. That jawline is sharp enough to cut a man, raising her chin to declare he strike at her. He can’t look. Can’t do it. He shuts his eyes tight and wills the red string in his brain to unknot enough to see…if he could only _see_ the connection. If he could give it to her, they could stop—

A hallucination of roaring flames erupts nearby, engulfing the board game and warming his skin. Betty lurks at the edge of it, untouched. The fire might as well be bowing at her feet, a sacrifice of itself.

“You’re the goddess of truth, of justice. _Elizabeth_ ,” he says quietly, eyes still shut tight. “I…I worship you.”

Two solid points of pressure shove him back, startled against the file cabinets. Papers flutter to the floor. “What was _that_?” he gasps, narrowing in on the tense girl in front of him.

Eyes shining with furious tears, Betty shakes her head. “I am not some all-powerful _goddess_ Jug.” She shoves her palms out in front of his face, crescents screaming something beyond the moons and magic. “I’m _human_. _We’re human_. Mortals who…who make mistakes, who lie to each other, who hurt themselves because life is hard, and _you_ …you’re fighting in some realm of make-believe where you think we can’t be hurt. We’re bleeding, Jug. Can’t you see that? Someone is trying to make you bleed.”

“I…I’m…” _Confused_ , his heart pounds harder in his chest. “I’m getting closer. I can _feel_ it.”

“You said you were going to meet him, Jug. _You_ , alone! Barreling in with a costume and a theory and what? You’re going to build up poison resistance and make them sip from the other cup in a reenactment of _The Princess Bride_?” It’s weird hearing loathing sarcasm drip from her lips when it so often stains his own. If he thought that would work— “My mom said that someone filled the chalices when they played, when your dad and the other parents played. Someone tempted them to drink, and their Principal at the time wasn’t found until a week later because of the flies and the smell. And do you wanna know where they found him Jug?” She steps back, lip trembling. “ _Your_ closet. The one you used to stay in before Archie took you in.”

It doesn’t seem real, that something that horrible could’ve happened in a space he laid in so intimately. A temporary coffin. But maybe that’s what it was all along. Looking around the bunker, he realizes that might be what this is too. A preamble to the mortuary, already buried in the ground instead of under the stairs.

“They were so high that any of them could’ve drunk from it, Jughead. Any of them could’ve died. And I know that with Archie, with the stress of the Serpents and Jingle Jangle and a cult with seizures and suicides and whatever the hell else this town wants to throw at us, it’s tempting to go into this fantasy. But I need you,” she declares, and it still strikes him as insane. “I need you _here_ with me. Mentally. Emotionally. _You_ , Jug. Not some Serpent King or dark knight or servant of truth and justice. I need _you_. The real you.” The candles glow in the shiny darkness of her eyes. “Come back to me.”

Surging forward, he remembers a fever dream after being bloodied to the point of death. Betty Cooper standing over his grave, shedding tears, fingers knit into his beanie as she begged him to come back. _Our story isn’t over yet. Come back to me, Jug._

The breath of life he’d taken soon after, jolting back to the world. It’s washing over him again, slamming in his chest as their bodies push together, his hands twining into her hair, lips closing hers in a silent prayer. Not to his goddess, but to his best friend.

_I’m here. I’m here._

The clasps of her overalls clink, sharply releasing the strain on her shoulders. His hands go up to knead them, to melt the stress away as his tongue searches for contact through her lips. They stumble to the cot, Jughead tugging her clothes down as his lips travel down her neck, the soft flesh of her stomach, ending on his knees, his mouth pressed as deep inside of her as he can manage.

“Jug,” she protests, her palms burning open wounds against his forehead. She gasps, legs still trapped by her overalls and shoes. He haphazardly helps her with them, tugging them off and laving her with attention in between.

“I’m here, Betty,” he murmurs, lips pressed against her once her legs are free, once his fingers can join in the attention. Her knees raise on either side of his head, her sex dripping, and for a moment he sees a flash of something. The curve of a skull, the slender cut of bones. The flesh of his goddess.

Moaning, he presses his face to it and worships. He feels her whimper, tugging at him. His goddess whispers to him, and he feels her juices on his chin.

“Juggie, look at me.”

His tongue works harder, and he isn’t worthy but he looks at the perfect pink wetness in front of him, his fingers joining his hard work.

“Juggie, stop.”

He feels her legs tighten on either side of his head, the muscles trembling within. Although he removes his fingers, he moves his mouth to the little bud that she likes having sucked and swirled. She’ll be pleased, he knows she will. He’ll serve her so well. His goddess Betty, _Elizabeth_.

“STOP!”

The warmth is replaced with pressure, her heel digging sharply into his collar. “Betty, what?!” he protests, bewildered by the lack of heat at his lips. But the goddess is displeased, appalled even.

“How fucking _dare_ you,” she breathes, shoving harder with her feet. He falls back on his butt, mouth still open, ready to serve. A slap strikes him hard. It’s like a lightning strike against his cheek, and he shivers, waiting for the rest of her divine intervention.

“I'm serving you, Betty.”

“I want my _boyfriend_ , not a _servant!”_ she screams, throttling his shirt by the collar. “This isn’t a game! Come back to me Jug! Come back to me!”

She’s sobbing, and reality shivers just a little. That same vision. Betty at the graveyard, raising him from the dead. Such a beautiful goddess. Such a loving lady. And she strikes him with her blessing.

With all her grace, she slides onto her knees, hands wringing at the hair by his neck. All he can see is her glowing skin, the vibrant deep emerald green eyes. _Truth. Justice_.

“I love you,” he says softly, her essence coating his smile.

“Juggie,” she whispers, thumbs coating his jaw, panicked. She doesn’t want to lose him to the darkness. But she won’t. He’s gotten good, he’s got control. He’s her King. And she’s his Queen. He tells her so, draping his thumb through the soft down at the back of her neck.

“You…you and Archie and I used to go to the treehouse, do you remember?”

He remembers a knight. Flaming red hair. Chivalrous. The favorite of his goddess, at least before he swore his own devotion.

“We would play pirates or musketeers. We would pretend to fight injustice, that our sticks were swords. That our hearts were pure.”

A ladder to ascend. To descend. Much like here. They’ll ascend soon, it’s only a matter of time, and then he can be worthy of his queen, can protect her. He smirks, nodding.

“But we weren’t, Juggie. Archie chased down a man in the woods and someone else shot him and now he’s in jail.” A terrible plot. Jughead frowns. That isn’t right. That’s the side quest though, it’s not the main. “I had to bury him alive while Svenson and my father tried to make me tear my world apart. Do you remember, Juggie? We were broken, and everything was falling apart. I never wanted to feel that way again.” Water streaks down her face, but it can’t hurt her. His thumbs slide along her bare waist, comforting her. Sometimes she needs a release. Maybe this one is what she needs. She’s in control of it anyway, he can trust her. “And then I did. I did.” Her head bows, heavy slaps of water sprinkling down from her chin onto the bunker floor beneath them.

It takes her a few more seconds before she can look up, the ocean and sky and fire and earth contained in those eyes. “I want to remember the day you came up to my window,” _another ladder_ , he remembers, “When you called me Juliet and knew it was just a name. When you told me we were more than our families, than the roles set out for us, and you kissed me. Do you remember, Jug?”

He does. He remembers that shade of pink. Her lips, her blush, her sweater. The way his veins sung in her presence. The way he could barely breathe before the plunge, cupping his hands around her neck much like she’s doing to him now. That she was so soft and giving and pure. He’d waited _so long_.

“Tell me what you remember, Jug. Tell me what’s important. Tell me you remember me. That you remember _us_.”

He opens his mouth, struggling over stories of rescues and devotion when he feels her fingers pry into his own, flattening her palm to match his. He feels her scars and the tales die on his tongue, swallowed by blood. He remembers the diner. Neon lights. The first time he removed his beanie…his crown? Fear sat low in his bones. Sadness. She wore his emblem on her chest, which trembled with anxiety as she showed him a part of her that shattered under pressure. He’d kissed her, she’d kissed him, and they made a vow to try not to hurt each other ever again.

But they did.

They _really_ did.

Grief overwhelms him, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to be sick. He lurches forward, wrapping his chin over her shoulder in the attempt to warm in her embrace. He remembers a night in a trailer, her face peering at him through the slat of the door as he welcomed destiny. Fate. He lost her, for a little while. He _lost_ her.

“Betty,” he breathes, teeth chattering. “I can’t…”

“Get out of here, Jug. We need to get out of here.”

Tongue thick and dry, he holds her tighter. “I’m not leaving you, Betty.” A spark of a memory with his father. Something about…traveling to another land. A family he has. _Somewhere_ , but not here. The one he wants to make with Betty.

“Just…go to the ladder, okay? I’ll grab your beanie, put out the fire.”

He wants to protest. They’re never supposed to put out the fire. But she’s wiping her nose, grabbing her clothes and delicately stepping into some pastel panties. They’ve laid on this cot before. Just…laid there. Bare. Together. Joking. Thinking. They wanted to be alone. Together, but alone, trying to understand and not understanding at all. He glances at the plans he has, plans on the table, plans for the _King_.

“Juggie, go!” she insists, shoving him with one hand, beanie pressed against his chest. Betty’s swerving, blowing the candles out, but he can tell she’s going to fall. His heart starts beating faster. It’s the fire. She can’t put all the fire out. That’s how she gets her power, isn’t it? His devotion?

“Betty,” he warns, struggling to follow her.

“JUST GO!” The force of her gale takes it out of her, pushing him back, fury melting into fluttering lashes. “Go, Jug.”

“Betty?”

And then she falls. The whole world rips itself in two, Jughead lurching forward to catch her before she collides with the earth. “BETTY! Betty! Oh my god, wake up! Wake up!” He starts panicking, far surpassing when that Ethel girl got sick. She was no goddess.

_She’s not a princess either._

Thick reality stabs through the edges of his brain. _Betty._ Fucking _hell_ , BETTY.

Hyperventilating, he starts screaming for her, for help. Maybe their friends can still hear them above this little circle of hell. “Come on baby, don’t lose me now,” he whispers, cradling her in his arms. But she can’t hear him. Tripping over her bag, he makes it to the ladder. Sunshine. That should help. But her eyes are still fluttering, unseeing, neck lolled against his bicep. “Betty, please,” he moans, kissing her hairline.

It’s almost impossible to climb and keep her safely tucked in his arms. He wants to be able to look at her, but he’ll probably have to hoist her over his shoulder. “HELP!” he screams, remembering Ben and Doiley in the woods. Death. So much death. He keeps saying her name, struggling under the weight, trying to get closer to where they’re supposed to be. Fangs and Sweet Pea arrive startlingly quickly, guilt flashing over their faces. He doesn’t even have time to try and identify why, or how they heard him. The both see Betty, reach down to help him grab her, trying to make sense of the sobs wracking through his throat as he clambers after her.

A seizure. She’s blacked out before under times of extreme stress, and she was fine. But there were people there, people who knew what the fuck they were doing and not 17 and running a gang into the ground while kids were offing themselves like it was the latest party trend. “Call Alice. Call the hospital. Oh my god, Betty,” he moans, ripping his hair. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Make sure she doesn’t bite her tongue,” Fangs says, already fumbling for his phone. It’s not like he has Alice’s number, but he has FP’s and the hospital’s. Sweet Pea pinches her cheeks, opening her mouth. It feels too intimate.

_He’s not a fucking cleric._

Jughead barges him out of the way, replacing his hands with terrified gentleness. He wants to give her the kiss of life, like Archie gave Cheryl. But he can’t. Instead he shoves his dirty, unworthy fingers against her pink, wet tongue and keeps talking to her.

This is wrong. This is insanely, incredibly _wrong_. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. This isn’t fate. This isn’t chance. This is the end of the fucking world as they know it. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this afraid. Not when the Ghoulies surrounded him. Not when he thought his dad was a murderer. The closest thing was riot night, when he knew the universe wanted to take a piece of one of his friends and was willing to tear through him to get it.

_This is Betty_. His best friend. His partner. The love of his life.

_I’m not a goddess, I’m human. We’re human. We’re bleeding_.

He doesn’t realize he’s wailing until Sweet Pea punches him in the arm, looking startled. “Shut up, man! You’re gonna freak her out! Help me carry her. Keep your fingers in her mouth.”

“Her bag,” he pants, glaring down at the pit that he’s pretty sure is poisoned now. “Her jacket. She needs—her things.”

“I’ll get them,” Fangs says irritably, waving them on. There’s a lot of swearing and stumbling through the woods, but he can’t just lay there and hope Betty comes to, holding her head as it shivers against his thighs. He’s the fucking worst. He’s so fucking unworthy. But she won’t be buried out here. He won’t bury her. He’ll burn this world to the ground before he lets it take Betty from him.

“Don’t talk like that, man,” Sweet Pea says, and Jughead realizes he’s been muttering aloud. “She’ll be okay. Let’s get her, uh…we only have the bikes, right?”

“The _hell_. Are you HAPPY?!” he screams at the forest. Sweet Pea leans back like he’s never seen him before. Like this isn’t just their lot in life. Fighting for every single scrap of happiness and throwing it all away because he’s too blind to see.

Sweet Pea forces him to stop by the side of the road so the ambulance will find them, collapsing onto his knees and patting Betty’s pale cheeks. “Please come back, come back to me,” he shivers, trying not to heave.

_They’re mortal. There is no ascension. There’s only death._

Riverdale is small enough that the ambulance wails in their direction soon, screaming through the trees louder than he can.

“Family only,” the paramedics insist, her ponytail dragging across his lap. Something rips inside of him.

“I _am_ her family! Please don’t take her from me. _Please_.” The pleading turns violent, Sweet Pea putting his hands on him to drag him away from the other clerics. _No_ , the paramedics.

“We’ll follow, we’ll follow, okay?”

It’s mean to be comforting, but spiking adrenaline can’t help but think he means _into death_. Because if she dies, a part of him will die too. All of him. He knows it. He’ll take his dad’s fucking pistol and off himself, Gargoyle King or no.

Sweet Pea’s palm slaps him lightly. “Stay with me, huh? We’re gonna follow her to the hospital.”

_You could stay. Stay._

Jughead closes his eyes and lets panic swell like the tide, remembering her quiet patience in the trailer, everything suddenly collapsing and colliding at once with just a few words, a touch.

“ _Betty_ ,” he chokes out, allowing hot wet tears to streak down his cheeks, the ambulance doors slamming shut and knocking the air out of his lungs.

He hates himself. He hates himself and he hates the memory that shrieks through his veins as he slides onto his bike.

_How many times, Jug? How many times are we gonna push each other away?_

_Until it sticks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up soon but lemme know what you think please and thank you ^-^ THAT SCENE at the end of 3x4 was not nice. Rude. Can't wait for tomorrow's episode to see where it goes.
> 
> Also the Betty/Jug violence is a throwback to what she remembers her mom telling her snapped FP out of his weirdness in the scene with Hermione in 3x4. We know Betty loves her JugBug and doesn't want to hurt him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead and Betty face their parents at the hospital and some other uncomfortable truths

He’s only vaguely aware of the blows reigned on him, the curses screamed in the hallway. They’re tolerable. The waiting, the uncertainty is not. What he wouldn’t give for the rattle of dice to tell him her fate. Alive or dead.

Something cold wraps itself in his gut, rattled when Alice’s palm collides with him again.

That shouldn’t even be an _option_.

_She’s not playing_ , he reminds himself. And apparently, neither should he. Thudding waves keep striking at him as he keeps trying to move closer, to get into her room.

His father drags the dragon woman away, but he can’t keep her claws in.

“If this game doesn’t kill _him_ , it’s going to kill _her_ ,” Alice snarls, elbowing FP in the chest to get hand free, extending one finger at Jughead. “And it’s _his_ fault.” Jughead inhales sharply, feeling dazed and sick. “His and all the rest of you who refused to come forward years ago." The matriarch of the Cooper clan turns on both of them. "If _anything_ , and I mean _anything_ happens to my daughter I will tear you two apart with my bare hands and bury you somewhere that even the Serpents will never be able to find you.”

It’s like his dad believes her, because he drops his grip, watching helplessly as Alice pushes on his chest, much like Betty’d pushed Jughead’s in the bunker. That hippie peace-love-and sunshine act has dissipated along with any civility. He can’t blame her. He doesn’t even fully know what he did in the woods when he thought Betty was in danger ( _she **was** in danger_), only that some of the orderlies are giving him wary glances and wide berths.

Alice seems to come into herself, aware of the horrendously abnormally normal atmosphere.

“Who the hell am I kidding? Something’s _already_ happened to her.” Her laugh is hysterical, humorless. “Her father’s a serial killer.”

_Her whole family’s a bunch of nut jobs_ , Jughead wants to mutter, but it hardly seems worth it when Alice gears up for another rant.

“She got caught up with _your_ son and his _gang_ , and from what you’ve told me, it’s more than likely she’s a target for the Ghoulies as well! I’ve read her diaries, FP, and I don’t like what I’ve seen.”

_Read her diaries?_ Jughead shifts, confused, the fog swirling more animatedly with every word.

“She has stripped herself bare, bloodied her hands, and shaved her mind to stay attached to this life, to that boy. Wears that ponytail like a coat of armor. As if it can protect her from any of it—from _this_. I wish she _was_ talking to a therapist. Maybe then she’d realize how ridiculous it all is to hold onto something from your past without expecting it to hurt you.”

For a second, both and he and his father look uncomfortable, stricken.

What else is Betty supposed to do? Let their relationship slip through her fingers like it’s water, like it means nothing? _What about their future? Their forever?_

In his current frazzled state he struggles to even register which boy Alice is referring to Betty being attached to, him, or Archie, or even his father, if she’s still projecting all of _that_ shit. She hates them all pretty equally, he thinks. But Betty’s tethered to Jughead _more_ , right? The most. So it must be him. Him, dragging her under like a stone tied to her ankle.

Alice takes a deep breath, her chest puffing up beneath the giant loose dress and _healing_  rocks wrapped around her neck. “I’m moving her away from here. We’d be better off at the farm.” Blood thunders in his ears. She _can’t_. She can’t take Betty away. “I was going to wait until graduation, but this…we should have done something about this years ago. I am not letting your son hurt my daughter! He could drive her to kill herself! She's hurt herself before because of him, she'll do it again!”

“You can’t do that, you can’t take her way from me!” Jughead shouts, as if the louder he is the more he’ll be heard. The more he can drown out the unbearable truth. FP holds up a hand. _Quiet, boy._ “You know I would do anything, _anything_ for Betty.”

“What, like live a responsible life sans a leather jacket? You think your reckless behavior only affects you?” Alice scowls. “That girl would hammer herself to a cross for you to help you fix the mess you’ve made. To help that gang of ruffians you call a family.”

Red and black spots throb behind his eyes. It brings to mind the article she posted for FP, the bloody warning on her locker. He remembers how Betty’d been huddled, afraid and whispering on the stairs outside her house in the cold night air.

_Everything is falling apart…_

Anger throbs like poison in his veins. “Like you’ve never made a mistake. One that Betty hasn't had to suffer from. Like my dad and I haven’t had to run interference on any of your stupid, crazy life-changing decisions!”

Somehow she still manages to roll her eyes at a referenced cover-up to a murder in her living room _._ “I hardly think this is the same thing, nor the same frequency. This town _does_ something to people.” Huffing, her thumb circles one of the stones on her neck. “It must be in the water, because we keep making the same mistakes, over and over.” Apprehensive, her gaze darts over FP’s stance, one hand in his pocket, the other on his hip.

Not this again. The cycle…that it never ends. How many times does he have to tell Betty this, tell himself? Yet as much as he’d like to declare right here and now that he’d _never_ be like his father, the promise dies before it begins. He’d also sworn he’d never be a Serpent. And now he’s the King, taken up the crown. They’re playing the same game twenty years later. But he’s never touched the bottle. And he’s in love. Real love, not whatever passionate and ill-advised love-hate thing FP and Alice might’ve had in the past.

“You are _so fucking selfish_ ,” he says, and for a second he thinks Alice is going to disembowel him. FP’s eyes go wide, something bobbing in his throat as he subtly shakes his head. “Betty’s in there and she needs us and you’re trying to make this about _you_.” They all are.

“It’s not _about you_ , Jughead,” Alice enunciates. “Or about _me._ Or even _us._ It’s about what’s best for Betty, and _clearly_ that isn’t spending time with you.”

The earth crumbles under his feet, and he almost lunges at her, at the voice in his head smirking that she’s right, she’s always been right. He’s not good for Betty, no matter how much he wants to be. No matter how much _she_ wants him to be. Every quest he uptakes seems to tear them further apart. But every time he leaves, things just get worse and worse. She never gets any safer and he never gets any happier and they are never going through that bullshit dance again. It’s broken.

_Your system is broken_ , he wants to tell them, annunciating each syllable.

Instead, he widens his stance, angled to protect the door. “I’m not leaving her. You can’t make me. I will chain myself to her bedside if I have to.” Just as Alice is about to slap him with a restraining order, or maybe just her hand, he appeals to her newly-minted emotions. “I was the _last thing_ she saw, and you know she won’t be at peace if I’m not the first thing she sees when she wakes up.”

_She’ll wake up._

Alice shifts, glaring at him like he’s a layer of grime on a greasy sheet pan. “Fine. But I’m still taking her to the Farm.”

“Pshyeah. We’ll see about that,” he snaps, unable to contain himself. Like Betty would allow herself to be hauled off to a commune.

FP rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Alice’s arm. “Listen, Alice, he’s just really worked up. His girlfriend had a seizure and he’s all messed up because of the game. Let me talk to him.”

“Might as well, before he gives her the blue-tanged kiss of death,” she snarks, slamming into Betty’s room with all the grace of a tornado.

FP and Jughead both let out a shaky breath, and Jughead wonders how many seconds it should be before he goes in after her. “After all we warned you about it, you still started playing that goddamn game,” FP says softly, like he can’t believe it. That his son would get an addiction. _A fucking addiction._

Maybe they _are_ trapped in these vicious cycles. Like it's the same thing. A poison. But it’s only been a day. He can stop it. He can go cold turkey. He can get better. For Betty. For—No, for himself, right? Because his dad could never get better for anyone else when he tried. The whole thing makes him nauseous, and even his dad gets paler just _looking_ at him. “When are you gonna learn, son? When are you gonna start learning from my mistakes?”

Saliva pools thick and useless in his mouth. He wishes he could _remember_. Could _see_. There are only so many patterns he’s privy to, and according to Betty, the ones in the bunker weren’t real. None of it’s _real_. Or maybe it is—was, at one point. “Betty said something about learning more about her mom’s experience with the game. About when you used to play. She was going to tell me, we were going to figure it out. I just—I tried to figure it out on my own. Some of the Serpents—“

“You brought the Serpents into it?!” Jughead pauses, letting his father smear an anxious palm across his skin. “Wow Jug, when you fuck up, you go all in, huh?”

His neck twists, sore and angry. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

His jeans feel tight and dirty, caked in dust. Bad vibes. He wants to shower, to make himself fresh and clean and wrap himself around Betty like a reversal of how she’d held him after the Ghoulie attack. He doesn’t want her to wake up to lies like he had. His father telling him the Serpents, Fangs even, was dead. That his girlfriend’s father made an attempt on her life and he wasn’t there for it, to help her through whatever it is that seems to hunt them down. Betty won’t be told that he’s brainwashed or dead, that he’s beyond reach, that she’s moving and he’ll never see her again.

In his determination, he fixes his dad with a glare. “Don’t act like you didn’t do the same thing when you were young. What are we supposed to do? Just accept that you’re keeping dangerous life-altering secrets from us and move on?! Why should I trust you after everything that’s happened?!” 

FP’s palm slams into the thick wall, but the entire place doesn’t shudder like it would if this was the trailer. “Because you could get hurt, Jug! Do you not _get that_? Your girlfriend is in there with a seizure because of whatever fumes or messed up playground you had going on down there!”

_Because of him._

Always because of him.

_No._ It’s the game. It’s the town. It has to be. Another sick Riverdale mystery to twist in his gut and conscience.

His breathing breaks, emotion creeping up on him again. The goddess of truth and justice, destroyed in the search of it. How ironic. But really, horrible.

And yet the truth seems to keep following them, a shadow just over the horizon.

_Jughead, if we’re going to be together, I want to know who you are. All of it._

She’s not a goddess. Not just a lover, in every sense of the word. She’s a best friend. She’s…

_Betty._

For some reason, he thinks of all the times he wanted to see her face but couldn’t. A red kerchief in her hair, focus buried in a car engine while he burned, too stubborn to get close and plead or even have a proper row with her. Standing next to Archie, smiling and whispering by a Christmas tree. _Red and Gold_ , he’d thought, because they fit so well together he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The flash of black lace baring itself for him in the Wyrm while the leathers licked their lips and readied to eat her and he didn’t know how to stop the feast. Sitting in a booth at Pop’s, waiting for the axe to drop on all of this.

But if he can see her face… _he just needs to see her face_. Stay with her. _Be_ with her. Push beyond his own boundaries and fear and show her all of him again, the real him. His hand curls around the door handle just as his dad interrupts, “I wouldn’t do that yet if I were you. Give it some time. You need to get your head on straight.”

_Straight_. Like his family is so good at going straight. His chest vibrates with what feels like pine needles prickling from the inside. It’s definitely not antlers and twigs.

The air feels bare around him now, without her in it. Not magic. Not music. _Betty_.

“I thought I could save her.”

“I know.”

They stand in silence for a moment, neither ready to move.

Even his eyelids feel unbearable with the weight of possibility. “I can’t…I can’t lose her, Dad. Not again. Not ever.”

Finally, his father leans against the door frame. “She’s gonna be fine, Jug.” The door feels heavy, insurmountable. “Do you believe me?”

_Do you believe him, Jug?_

Her hand, soft on his arm, big eyes full of wonder and worry.

_I do._ The weight of possibilities so heavy on his shoulders, on the trust he wanted to bestow on his father, on his beautiful pink and gold girl. It was a challenge, an escape and a push when he asked, _Do you?_

_I believe_ ** _you_** _, Jughead_ , she’d said, a glowing light behind her, hands on his cheeks. And his heart had filled so much he thought it would never have room for anything else again.

FP claps him hard enough on the shoulder that a sob breaks out of his chest, and everything feels so loose and jumbling in his mind that he’s not sure if he can stop.

 

Shadows shift in her peripheral, and in one horrible extended breath she realizes that it’s over her bed. The Gargoyle King. Arms out, waiting to embrace her. The Goddess.

The thing in front of her doesn’t make a sound, but she understands it nonetheless.

‘ _Your lover will ascend soon. He wants to meet me. But perhaps I’m willing to make a trade.’_

Her words feel garbled, slowed down as she struggles to sit up on her palms. “What do you want from me?”

Thoughts invade her brain, stinging, horrible straggling things involving symbols and shapes and blue lips. The Gargoyle King gestures to the now-open window, a quiet drizzle of summer evening rain darkening the atmosphere. Like Ben. He didn’t scream. He didn’t fear. He just fell into oblivion thinking he would find his purpose, his destiny at the end of the line.

But she doesn’t believe in destiny. She doesn’t believe in much of anything anymore.

It’s harder to think here, to make sense of things. The Gargoyle King doesn’t care about _who_. Anyone could’ve drank from that cup. So why? Why create discord if there’s no target other than the town itself? The teens were players but an adult was the first one taken. She can’t stop everyone from playing, and yet _everyone_ isn’t the target. The deaths are almost just a side effect of something greater. So why come to her? Why come to _this_?

Reality. It’s something to do with unreality. Blurring the lines. A feeling more than a fellow.

“I’m not afraid of you. Of whatever _this_ is that you’re doing.”

The bones make a whistling sound, the breath of man squeezing through the slow-crusting blood on its hollows.

‘ _And what exactly have I done?_ ’

Even though the words, the movements are slow, she pushes through, trying not to blink as she straightens up and stares past the dark sockets it pretends are its eyes. “You’ve built yourself up as some great god. A King to be worshipped, served, and sought.”

The skull tilts, branchy wings shifting in pride.

‘ _A myth is greater than any man.’_

“But a myth can’t _touch_ me, you can’t _touch_ any of us. You’re afraid to, because that would make you real.”

_He can’t touch Jughead_ , she tries to remind herself. _Not anymore._

With more venom than conviction, she declares, “ _You_ are not a god. You're a man, another man in another mask who's lost in his own personal power fantasies." The _thing_ says nothing, and she nods, empowered. "I’ve found men like you before, I’ve sniffed you out, buried you behind bars and sunk you in the ground that transcend this unreality. This false escape you try to trap people in.”

_‘Perhaps this reality is closer than you think._ ’

It gestures to the window again, and she sees the room in Polly’s cell. Sisters of Quiet Mercy. The broken glass, the whipping winds outside. But Jughead had been beside her then. She turns, but all she sees in an empty room and a bed with chains. This creature gestures with one arm, so _slow,_ so imprecise.

‘ _I have_ ** _him_. **_I had your mother too. I will have them all. And you cannot join them.’_

“My mother never drank from your cup,” she protests, sitting up properly, slowly crawling onto her knees. He nods his head appreciatively, as if she’s kneeling.

‘ _But_ ** _he_** _did.’_

Anger flashes through her like the lightning outside. He wouldn’t leave her willingly. Drawing up, she glares at this _thing_.

“It was a lie. _You_ are a lie. A fantasy.”

‘ _Perhaps. But it was a promise, a chance nonetheless. And soon all of Riverdale will preach my gospel, eclipsing the things you swore you loved. We could be friends, you and I. We could be family.’_

Her eyelids feel heavy, and she struggles to keep them abreast. This _thing_ must know her, which means she knows _it_. Hiding in plain sight at the edge of the forest, the edge of her bed, the edge of Quiet Mercy. It _knows_ that she’s seen her own version of darkness. Has seen her friends blazed out of their minds amidst the fantasy of a monster. That she’s vanquished them, saved them, stood apart and dealt with demons that drove a stake into her heart and made her stare into the void, trying to get her to scream.

“ _No_. No more darkness.”

The skull tilts in surprise as she reaches up, hands curling around its antlers, blood dripping down its hollows. The horns are broken in jagged sections that slice through her fists, hot breath pressing against her skin.

“ _You have no power over me._ ”

And she hauls off the Devil’s mask, a rattling sound emitting amidst the rumble of thunder.

 

The bite in her palms is brief, sweet. Two figures jolt with her, reaching for the bedside before she has a chance to register who they are. Masks? But no, it’s her mother, rock bracelets jangling as she reaches for Betty’s shoulder, pushing her down, restraining her. The other is Jughead, paler than she’s ever seen him, long fingers going for her fist. His touch feels cold, reverent, as he brings her hand to his lips for a kiss.

Horrified, she wonders if he still thinks he’s her servant.

Based on the way his blue eyes seem to hover steadily on her face, she thinks maybe not. Before, he was lost in a dream or burrowed deep in a conspiracy. Now, he’s here. He’s present. But for how long? Before she can ask, her mother’s already pressing the “call nurse” button and smothering her forehead to see if she has a fever.

“Sweetie…you had another seizure. Are you all right? Do you remember anything? Did your miscreant make you eat or drink anything?”

Confused, she looks from her mother to Jughead, who appears to be keeping his mouth shut. “No. I just remember telling him to go, getting our stuff together,” she blushes, glancing at a pensive Jughead, “and trying to blow out the candles. Then things got warped, and I heard Jug. And I saw…” She looks at the foot of the bed, frowning. Did she _see_ or did she _dream_? “That thing dressed as the Gargoyle King.”

Jughead’s hands tighten around her fist, his fingers seeping between her own like he can staunch the blood.

In further testament to her mother’s recent body-snatching, instead of reaming her out for hallucinating, Alice asks, “What did he do?”

She frowns at the foot of the bed, looking for evidence of him. “He wanted me to go to the window. Said he knew I couldn’t ascend, but I could make a trade. For you. For Jughead.” Jughead’s labored breathing worries her, the paled intensity of his face. But she’s not going to stop. “I told him no, and then I…” she flexes her palms, sees the deep red crusted there. Pressing his forehead to her hands, Jughead sniffs, miserable and ashamed. “I lifted his bloody bone mask, it pierced my skin, and then I woke up.”

Jughead lifts his face in horrified awe and Alice leans forward, rubbing the stone around her neck. “What did he want to trade you?” She’s genuinely curious. Like dreams mean something, like she can help her.

“The truth. Everything.”

A little moan escapes Jughead, and she’s fairly certain he’d beat himself with her fist if he could. Instead, he flattens her palm and kisses it, closing his hands over it like he can keep it safe if he presses hard enough.

Alice snaps a glare at her boyfriend. “Don’t worry, Betty. I burned some sage through the house and we can bring it here, if you’d like. It helps with banishing evil spirits.”

She can practically _feel_ Jughead biting his tongue. Unusual. Maybe he _was_ possessed.

Actually…she remembers her mother burning sage after Cheryl came to the house. There were candles at the twins’ ceremony, the first time she’d passed out, and then again in the bunker. Maybe there is something…

But were there candles when she nearly passed out at her mother’s house? And what about Ethel? Why were these seizures only happening to certain people? At certain times? People who do and don’t play the game? It can’t just be stress.

“Something is happening here, Mom. Maybe…maybe it’s chemical. But I don’t know what—“

“It’s not your mystery to figure out, Betty. I’m taking you away until this whole thing disappears.”

Away? _Disappears_? But how? She gasps, catching her mother’s meaning and tightening her grasp on Jughead. “No. No you are not. I can’t leave. What about Riverdale? What’ll happen to all these kids? I left Jug alone for one day and—“

“And he got addicted to a board game, Betty,” Alice rolls her eyes, Jughead shifting in annoyance next to her. “I know you’re in love, but you have to think of yourself. Is this really the kind of healthy long-term relationship you’re looking for? You have to think of the now. You can still _see_ Jughead, but you don’t have to be his _Serpent Queen_. Open yourself up to the possibility of a life where you’re not constantly in danger.”

Her hair feels hot around her neck, her shoulders, even as he nervously watches her, like maybe she’ll say something else other than what she does. “No. I’m not leaving.”

“So you’re content to wait until your next classmate dies? Or gets accused of murder? Or better yet, throw yourself into the fray? Because I have to tell you, Betty, these kinds of things never happen at the Farm.”

“Of _course_ they don’t, Mom, because you’re _brainwashed_!” she seethes. “Who the hell has the energy to fight when they’ve been drinking laced-out herbal tea and writing endless affirmations? Besides, if the Farm is so great, why is Evelyn Evernever at Riverdale High?”

Finally her mother seems to recoil, straightening in her seat. “She’s sacrificing to spread the word. If she’s to take a position of leadership, she needs to be exposed to world views that aren’t the Farm’s.”

“The _word_. Like it’s some kind of gospel, just like the Gargoyle King! How do you not see that?! How can you not _care?!_ The Farm is hurting our family just like the game is running over our town!”

Lips thinning, Alice shakes her head. How is Jughead staying silent during all this? He’s rather decidedly not making eye contact with either of them, glancing somewhere in the realm of Alice’s necklaces as she says, “You’re just saying that because you’re upset. Because you don’t want to give them a chance. The people at the Farm are all about love and acceptance, Betty. About being _present_ and _aware_ and grateful. That game is about unreality, an escape. It’s violence, passion, magic, and death. The Farm could give you a new outlook on the life you _have_. The game pushes away and destroys the life you’ve got. I know things haven’t been easy, but you could use a bit of positive thinking, letting go of the past,” it doesn’t escape Betty how her mother glances at Jughead, “and embracing what you can do with your present.”

Incensed, especially since she feels smothered by these stupid hospital blankets, Betty kicks at the bed, freeing herself. “Maybe I’d be more inclined to enjoy my present if my mom wasn’t a basket case, my neighbor wasn’t in juvie, my friend wasn’t drowning in debt, and my boyfriend wasn’t in mortal danger. But I can _handle_ it, Mom. Maybe not right this second, right after a _seizure_ , but I get to choose how I get to make this world safe for me again.”

Jughead flinches at her word choice, maybe a memory, exchanging a glare with her mother.

“Fine. We’ll discuss home schooling in the morning, when you’ve had time to rest. _I_ don’t want you to have another stress-induced fit.”

 

Sighing, Betty leans back against the headboard. Jughead had gone with her mother to make sure there was nothing funny in the Earl Gray tea so at least _that’s_ safe to sip. They’re switching to filtered water now too. Who knows what’s happening here, what minerals and toxins are sifting into their system.

He still hasn’t said anything, fingers almost always tracing her skin, her hair, looking at her like he’s afraid she’s going to disappear.

“How are you feeling?” she finally asks, glancing up at him.

“Sort of…sickened. Empty,” he admits, staring at her lap with a defeated sigh. She leans forward to rub his muscled shoulder. Stormy regret lingers on his face, weighs in his bones as he tries to find the right place to start. “I almost lost you, Betty. I almost lost you _again_ because I got wrapped up in this game, in a mystery that shouldn’t even be ours to solve.” He tosses his beanie on her bed, rubbing his squashed hair for resolve. “I got my dad’s side of the story, and your mom’s. They should’ve solved this years ago. The Gargoyle King? The Blossom empire? They didn’t deal with any of it. Serpents, alcoholism, parental expectations, teen pregnancy. Hell, they even had some odd ones like child-brides, although we dealt with our fair share of _grooming_. And now it’s like time has just amplified it. My dad said this town was innately a place of good _and_ evil. But maybe it’s just full of mistakes. Like me.”

“Juggie, you are not a _mistake_ ,” she frowns, hating that word anywhere near her boyfriend.

“Oh. Sorry. I just _make_ them. _I’m_ an _Accident,_ ” he rolls his eyes, air quotes hovering. She knows Gladys and FP got married because she got pregnant, but still. It’s not his fault his parents made an irresponsible decision that ended up in a miracle, one of the only truly good things in Betty’s life. FP and Alice’s _accident_ hadn’t turned out so well, or so she’d presume. It’s a miracle Jughead’s as wonderful as he is, even if he is…lost, sometimes. _Unmoored_ , he’d once said.

“Jughead, you are a gift. An amazing friend. You’re a leader, a writer, a _voice_ , but you’re human. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“Not like this,” he shakes his head, lips thinned. “Not when I keep putting everyone else, and myself in danger. Not when you’re at risk. Not when _this_ …” Her heart twists a little harder when he meets her gaze, shifting with regret. “I can’t…keep doing this to you, Betty. Maybe we _should_ leave. Just pack our bags and get out of Riverdale and keep running. Because all that other stuff? It doesn’t matter. I need _you_. I need you safe, and obviously I have no idea how to do that, and neither do you and neither do our pathetic excuses of parents. Maybe we should start over. I could get a _real_ name, one that doesn’t have _jug_ in it.”

Smiling, she lets her hand cup his cheek. At least he’s _back_. “I love Jughead.”

A sad smirk manages to rise into her palm. “I know. I love you too.”

“What about the Serpents?”

He sighs, shuffling his hair and crawling up to the bed beside her. “I risked them too. Again. Dad’s dealing with getting rid of the game. Another mess of mine he ends up having to clean. I just felt like I was getting so close, understanding what happened in his head.”

Unsure what to say, not wanting to discredit any potential progress, she looks for a bright spot in the muck. “Well, we’ve cleaned up our share of your dad’s messes. You especially, right?” Jughead doesn’t say anything. Afraid to bring it up, she looks at his dirty knees. “So…what about the game?”

Mouth open, he hovers on the right words, a knot working its way distinctly in her gut. At least the world stays stationary in her peripheral. _For now_. “I…I’m not sure how to answer that. I haven’t gone back there. I almost don’t want to.”

“Almost?”

Sighing, he leans his head back. “I just…I want to finish this. Not the game, but this… _shadow_ looming over us, wondering who’s next.” She nods, the mug of tea warm against her palm, calling to and dulling her pain at the same time. “I’ll try—I won’t play again. Not if it upsets you. I don’t know what happened…how I got there. I thought I was in control. But I know it must’ve been bad for everything to happen the way it did.”

He stares at her, anxiously waiting for a response. But she can’t _lie_ to him. Can’t tell him it’s all right. That it wasn’t _that_ bad, that the universe hadn’t tilted on its access and tried to swallow them whole. Instead, she threads their fingers together, _partners, in all of it_ , hips flush as she crosses her ankle over his leg, her head falling on his shoulder.

They sit quietly for a minute, gently linked from head to toe. His voice breaks the quiet. “I’m sorry that I scared you.”

The tea trembles, nearly spill in her lap. “I know. I’m sorry I—“

“Don’t,” he insists, pressing his forehead into her hair. “Don’t apologize for something you can’t control. I _chose_ to risk playing again, to bring our friends in. You didn’t _choose_ to have a seizure. I’m just…I’m so fucking sorry, Betty. ”

The herbal tea tastes bitter on her tongue, so she sips quietly, wondering what’s next. “So…I’m not your goddess anymore, right?”

A wry grin presses a kiss into her cheek. “Well, in some ways you always will be.” At her wide-eyed stare, he drops the pretense of humor. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have put that pressure on you. I know we’re mortals, Betty. Never more so than today.” The kiss on her forehead is more insistent this time, his arms cradling her closer against him.

She remembers the way Jughead had stared in wild-eyed fascinated horror at the thing in the woods. The way she’d had to pull his hand and run. That she’d almost had to pull him back from the window when Ben had jumped, held him so he wouldn’t look, so he wouldn’t see. What if she wasn’t there, she wonders, and curls her hands tighter in his own.

“I know it’s tempting to _understand_ things like this,” she says, nestling into the softness of his hair and the warmth of his skin. “The rules of a dangerous game. But lately, I’ve felt so lonely that it almost doesn’t even matter. I just want to go to Pop’s and have milkshakes, do homework and laugh with my friends. That’s _my_ fantasy. I know it’s… _nostalgic_ to be traipsing around for clues, and I do love doing it with you. Lately it just feels like we’re grasping at something older than time.”

“Sin?” he offers, kissing her forehead again, her _brain_. For a second she twitches in annoyance, wondering if he’s thinking of their more _amendable_ times in the bunker. If this is a joke, more _sardonic humor to deal with the world._

“I was thinking that maybe…we’re looking so hard because we want to see the differences between us and someone who’d poison the town, someone who would murder their own family, who’d hurt themselves or anyone else. We’re not…we’re not that far removed, Jug.” Her fingers ply at the ceramic mug, twisting tree branches on its side. She thinks about Chic, running into the woods, the shadow of her father chasing after him while she let the universe decide his fate. Did she feel it gave her less responsibility that way? If it was chance? Did she already flip for someone’s fate?

Jughead’s voice is low in the measured way reserved for when he thinks aloud. “You think we’re searching for signs that we’re further removed from _true_ ugliness.”

“Maybe.” She bites her lip, afraid to look at him. “Yes.”

A deep sigh. “Sometimes I think you’re too smart for your own good, Cooper.” Betty chews her bottom lip absently as Jughead takes her mug and sets it on the bedside table. They lean into each other, eyes flickering across each other’s faces. “I know I put you on this pedestal. And I know we both have issues. I mean, we covered up a murder. I carved up someone’s arm. Your dad’s shot and terrorized people and my dad has dumped more than one dead body. I guess…in the world of the game, none of that is _real_. None of that is _wrong_. Someone _else_ is doing the morally grey, morally blackened things, to someone we don’t know or maybe even care about. If we loot a dead guy’s jacket, it’s not…someone we went to school with. When we’re searching for clues in the woods, someone _else_ is the criminal. The murderer. The Big Bad.” She smirks at the reference, even if it’s grim to do so. His fond smile is like the flicker of a lighter in her gut, but the amusement dies down before it has the chance to begin.

Cringing into the bed, into his arms, she tries to face her own fate. Her own past. “I nearly drowned someone, Jug. I hurt all of my best friends. I tied Chic up and set him loose in the woods for my father to hunt down like an animal.”

“But you had reasons—“

“We _all_ have reasons, including whoever’s doing this right now. We make choices, Jug, however wrong they might be.” Jughead stares at her, that cute line furrowing between his brows. She reaches up to touch it, smooth it down before cupping his cheek. “Even Hiram Lodge has _reasons_. I was serious when I said we need to do better. We need to _be_ better. And I think maybe that’s why this investigation means more than the rest. That’s why we keep trying to find similarities to when we first started, so we don’t see the similarities to who we are now. And maybe that’s why we keep looking for patterns, so we won’t repeat them again. So we can say that we’re different. That we’re stronger or smarter or more prepared, when really…maybe we don’t have anything but a few more battle scars.”

She traces the spot just above his brow, the cut that took the longest to heal after his beating. There’s still a little threadbare strip there where his eyebrows haven’t grown back in. No one might notice except for her, but it’s there all the same, staring out at her above the thoughtful set of eyes taking her in now. Everything feel more intense when they’re looking in each other’s eyes, like she’s changing, heated by some inner fire, soaked by an inevitable storm.

It’s more difficult to focus, but she tries. “Archie pled _guilty_ to crime he didn’t commit just because he thought he _could’ve_ done it, _that’s_ who he’s become. But maybe, _maybe_ my mom’s right about living in the present. Seeing things for what they really are. For who we are, too.”

Her lips flicker to his plush frown, thoughts interrupted by his hand tugging her body flush against him. “Whoever I am, I want to be with you. You got that, Cooper? No more scaring each other. The world’s scary enough as it is.”

_That_ she can agree with. Nodding, they lean in to kiss, hands tenderly cupped around each other’s chins. There’s something there, something sweet. Not the powdery concoction of death, not blood, not soda. All of a sudden it strikes her. It’s _her_. He still tastes like her. Stunned, she pulls back, wetting her lips.

Gaze heady, he brushes his nose against hers in an intimate caress. “Can I stay tonight?”

“My mom…” He practically scowls at the mention.

“I almost lost you tonight. You think I’m scared of Alice Cooper?” Grinning, she savors the way the air electrifies as he moves closer. “She’d have to use pliers to get these hands off of you now.”

Giggling, she laments that her overalls are so hard to get out of. Possibly the least sexy things she owns, but she knew she’d be _investigating_ today.

“Plus,” he adds, kissing down the ridge of her ear, hot breath tickling her neck. “I think she told us we’re supposed to be embracing a _non-violent_ lifestyle. What’s more non-violent than making love?”

Quirking an eyebrow, she challenges him, “I know some kitchen cabinets that might disagree with you.”

“Oh?” he smirks, his hands winding down into her overalls, searching for bare skin. “I guess I have to practice being gentle.”

“Juggie,” she giggles, cut off with a gasp when he sucks her pulse against his tongue. She pushes at his shoulder, needing air and needing more of _him_ all the same.

This time he pulls back at the slightest resistance, eyes clouding over with concern. “Betty?”

“You’re _you_ ,” she pants, momentarily terrified. “You have to be _you_.”

“I know, Betty. And you’ll be _you_. I’m not gonna leave you again. I promise.”

Even though it’s sweet, and even though she believes he means it, she doesn’t know what to believe. Maybe she shouldn’t believe anything. Just let things happen and do what she can to walk the line, to balance the ugliness with the beautiful. A yin and yang. Find a way to stay whole. To stay straight, away from the things that might be an addiction. The game. A fantasy. A mystery. A drug.

As her mouth opens and his tongue slides along her own, she’s drawn tantalizingly into the present. His palm squeezes her breast, releasing a flood of adrenaline and dopamine in her brain. Even as her clothes click and unlatch, ultimately she’s being held, and wraps herself around her man. This time, they make love on their sides, face-to-face and heart-to-heart. Her leg hoisted up on his hip, she feels the grind of him dramatically reverberate in her bones. A deep ache, a satisfaction builds inside of her, brain fueled with static fire.

“Juggie,” she whispers, and feels his mouth at her jaw.

“ _Betts_.”

A shiver runs through her, nails running along his side. The subtle groove of his ribs gives way to vulnerability, his flesh, even as the firmer parts of him push into her.

_We’re human_ , she reminds herself, his thumb reaching down to draw her heated nerve-ending response.

Even though she knows they’re both _them_ , with his stormy blue eyes blown black with her reflection, ecstasy spreading through their bodies, she thinks this is the closest thing she’s ever really felt like a goddess and a god, the closest she’s felt to _ascension_. Just _being_ here with him makes her feel warm and glowing, more than herself because she’s inhabiting her body in a way she never has with anyone else.

 

Not quite curious, she glances at the window in her bedroom. It’s closed, the boy she wants warm and loving, _himself_ at her side. Curling into him, Betty slides her cheek along his tanned, muscled arm.

She looks in Jughead’s sleepy, somewhat sated eyes. He doesn’t believe in God. But he believes in her. And she…believes in _them_. They’re going to get through this.

Besides, she muses darkly, touching Jughead’s swollen lips, that means there will be no god to call to, no one to hear the Gargoyle King’s cries when they tear him branch from branch, limb from limb, as they burn his lies in a pyre. She kisses Jughead sweetly, and already feels the bonfire lighting deep within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. I was gonna end it on sex and then I was like, "OH BUT THE FIERCE" so lemme know what you think. I know this chapter was a bit more dialogue-heavy but SOME PEOPLE were eager for it to come out *cough* So hopefully it makes sense. There is a Riverdale-esque dream sequence because of course there is. I know tonight's episode will not go this route but heyyyy wouldn't it be exciting if it did? Psychic powers activate! "You are the light!" Holy smokes. Now I wanna write an actual fantasy version of his G&G delusion. Also in the hospital during the potentially flinch-inducing memory Jug is remembering after the Wyrm breakup and gift exchange when she was like, "It's my choice! What to risk, and for whom!" because he can't control his amazing lady or the risks she takes and feels stupid for putting her in a risky situation. The kiss at the end is a vague throwback to when she kissed Jug and was like AHA THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE! Most of this fic is a throwback/speculation in honor of the flashback episode I guess. Who else wants to see Betty flick a lighter at the Gargoyle King like she did at Chic and just set that f**** ablaze?


End file.
